


Champagne

by unravels (Holly)



Category: Good Omens - Gaiman & Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-28
Updated: 2010-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-08 09:24:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/75188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holly/pseuds/unravels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The States in the roaring twenties had an abundance of both vice and enforced morality.  Aziraphale and Crowley aren't surprised that they have assignments there, but they do find that working on them together is much more efficient than working separately.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Champagne

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Good Omens Exchange, 2007.

_From 'News and Views' by A. Fell:  
New York City, NY, October 15, 1925----Rumours abound concerning the location of the newly popular crime den where alcohol is freely traded; however, local authorities have so far come up empty-handed. Who are these lawbreakers whose very presence disturbs the peace of local law-abiding citizens? The illegal establishments, known by the unlikely slang 'talkeasies,' have grown in popularity despite the authorities' efforts to control these violations of the Dry Law. As we're told in Isaiah 5:11, 'Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that they may follow strong drink; that continue until night, till wine inflame them!'_

The author nodded to himself as he read, mumbling aloud.

"Not my best effort, I think, but at least it's on message. More than I can say for last week. Layout editor looks like he was drunk himself, but I suppose the poor lad did the best he could. This story about the President could certainly go further down. Heaven knows the man is publicized enough.

"'Woe unto them…'" he continued, checking over his article for spelling errors. "So prescriptive, but I suppose that's the point. People must be wary, and not 'rise up early…' er. Oh. Surely not."

He grabbed a Bible – there were several handy, but most of the ones nearby in the cramped office were preserved under glass – and flipped through it with a frown, distracted and still mumbling. Apparently finding what he was looking for, he blinked, closed the book, and reached for another copy. He'd opened the volume and was busily flipping to the correct chapter when his instincts kicked in at last and he looked up again toward the door. The page-turning slowed, then stopped altogether. Aziraphale stared.

There was an unexpected shadow leaning casually against one of the many shelves of research material he'd set up in the cramped little room. He could make out just enough to see one crisp, pinstriped sleeve of a very well-fitted suit. The angel was rarely aware of the fact that his shirt was rumpled and his glasses were askew, but in the presence of the impeccably-dressed visitor they seemed like vital details. He made some attempt around the book still clutched in his hand at straightening his glasses, but the effect, he knew, was minimal. The shadow edged into the light just far enough for Aziraphale to see that it was carrying something in front of one spotless lapel. Whatever it was made a sound like ice bouncing off the sides of a glass.

"Thanks for the publicity, angel," said the shadow.

Aziraphale tried to speak. "Crowley," he managed. "What on… how did… er, doing here?"

Crowley snorted, fully materializing at last out of the gloom. The glass contained something golden brown and expensive-looking along with the ice. Aziraphale doubted it was tonic. "Good to see you, too," Crowley said. "We should have a drink sometime. Oh, wait," he added, apparently as shocked as if this had just occurred to him. "We can't." The glass disappeared with a showy _pop_.

"Well. I can see that you're here on assignment," the angel sniffed, making a heroic effort to regain some measure of control. He hadn't expected Crowley, of all people, much less Crowley in a suit like that. There had been a few daydreams, perhaps, which didn't live up to the reality in the slightest. It helped to focus on a spot slightly to the demon's right. "Though I'm sure I don't know what you mean about publicity."

"Aren't you going to invite me in?" Crowley asked, looking wounded.

"Of course, my dear, it's just, ah." Aziraphale looked hopelessly around the office, an unglorified closet in the basement of the building. The single chair (which he occupied) sat behind a beaten desk on which rested a monstrous Royal typewriter, conspicuously missing its 'magic margin' lever. Every other available surface in the room was taken up with books and newspapers, many of the latter bearing a telltale ring-shaped tea stain. The angel's published articles (the dangers of overeating, the benefits of rising early, the wonderful escapism of the latest books) lined the walls in understated frames.

"I'll just make myself comfortable," Crowley said with a sigh, and with a gesture, a pile of the scattered books resolved itself into an armchair. Aziraphale gasped as though he'd been stabbed.

"See reason and I'm prepared to turn it back," Crowley said with a smirk.

"I doubt anything you have to say would be considered 'reasonable,'" Aziraphale said faintly, still staring at the chair rather than risking the smirk.

"Well, I'll make this easy for you. I'm running – well, let's say an _establishment_. With some _associates_. And we have a few _side projects_."

"Oh," Aziraphale said dryly, ripping his eyes away from the chair. "With that detailed description, I can only assume that you've started an orphanage with the backing of a few of the local churches and on the side you're trying to raise money for an education bill."

"Yes, angel," Crowley said flatly. "That's exactly it. And if you'd like to keep believing that, it isn't going to make a bit of difference to my organization except that we won't be able to help each other."

"I take it your organization has something to do with selling – er - contrabland on the back market?" Aziraphale asked warily.

"Of course," Crowley said, sounding far too happy about it. He didn't bother to conceal the accompanying snicker at the angel's attempts to speak the official lingo. "And for a price, I'll even tell you where it is. There's a restaurant out front, but I wouldn't suggest eating there. I can't convince them to do their duck quite right, for one thing."

"Much as I appreciate that, I don't think giving your location to the police would help your business much. My articles are pro-amendment. On the side of the law, all that. Even if the law is… rather confused, just now."

"What a surprise," Crowley deadpanned. "That brings us to the price I mentioned. No disclosure. Half the cops are already regulars, anyway, but we don't want to give them a reason to shut us down. They'd be fired if they didn't, you go giving them that kind of information. No, I want you to come by and then write about all the depraved, dishonest, degraded things we're doing in there. Just the facts. I'm sure you can make it sound _terrible_."

Aziraphale blinked at him. "You want me to say your bar is terrible."

"Say what you think," Crowley corrected, gesturing expansively. "The worse you make it sound, the more people will want to be there. It'll be the hottest, dirtiest, booziest place in town."

"Now hold on just a minute," Aziraphale said. His hair was sticking up near the back, which contrasted with his flashing eyes. "These are reasonable people! They aren't going to track this place down just because it's _bad_."

"Care to place a wager on that?" That tempting, tinkling sound of ice on the side of a glass rang through the room again.

Aziraphale spared half a second to think on what he knew of people, and what he knew of Crowley tempting people. And then he came to the temptations people found completely on their own and answered with confidence.

"Don't be ridiculous. Gambling isn't legal in this state."

Crowley favored him with a knowing look, and waited. The angel scratched at some imaginary mark at the base of his typewriter, focusing on it before speaking again.

"I take it you haven't been over long. How are things back ho—er. Back in England?"

"Oh, about the same," Crowley said. "Everyone's still happy that the war's over. Champagne and cheap booze flowing through the streets. Oh, there was a lovely Chablis that made the wine list at the Ritz. I might have been able to procure a bottle, but of course I wouldn't bring it here."

"No," Aziraphale agreed, sounding wistful. "I suppose you couldn't."

"My bar, on the other hand, is just the place for that sort of thing." Crowley examined his nails. "We might have some in stock. I'll have to check."

"If I go, and I'm not saying I will, mind, I won't be drinking," the angel said with a pious sniff.

"If you say so. You don't know what you'll be missing, though." He sighed, and if Aziraphale wasn't so busy ignoring the details, he might have noticed the regretful quality to Crowley's voice.

"Coming by tonight, then? You'll have to guard this with your life, of course." He pulled a card out of a hidden pocket of his immaculate suit and laid it on the desk between them.

"Tonight? Well, I'd meant to read through Beeton's 'Household Management' again now that all the installments are compiled, but as you seem to be encouraging this article… It _would_ be a warning to benefit the community."

"I'll give you an exclusive," Crowley promised, standing slowly. Aziraphale was certain that it was calculated to display the way his body unfolded to maximum effect; there was simply no other explanation for the way the demon moved. Really, it was almost obscene. He averted his eyes quickly once again.

"And your quote was _priceless_," Crowley was saying from the door, veiled once again in shadows. "I don't believe in getting up early, either." With a gesture at the leatherbound chair, he was gone. The volumes of books suddenly returned to the space the chair had occupied.

The angel sighed with relief – whether at the books' return or Crowley's departure even he couldn't say – and picked up the card.

***

The angel had arrived a little later than he'd normally have called for dinner, thinking that perhaps the worst of the ruckus was over and he could pop in and out in relatively unobserved quiet. He was slightly disappointed at first by the rather dingy restaurant where he'd been directed; he was used to seeing Crowley's projects display a little more flash and flare. The staff, on the other hand, were remarkably cheerful as they guided him to a discreet door in the back. Aziraphale tried wistfully not to think about what Crowley had promised them to get such an enthusiastic response. Once he was waved through into the nightclub portion of the place, though, he realized his mistake in judging the place so quickly. Of course the restaurant was unappealing. Of course your eye drifted lazily past it in search of other wonders. You weren't meant to even see the building unless you were looking for it, and at that sort of camouflage it was remarkably successful.

Opening the door to the 'real' bar was like entering another dimension. From the back of a drab restaurant where he'd half-expected to find a closet full of mops and dishwashing soap, perhaps with the addition of Crowley laughing his head off from behind him, the last thing he expected was a lively club. There were colorful lights, music, and people everywhere – most of whom were involved in animated conversation. He'd hardly taken three steps before Crowley was at his elbow, steering him toward a relatively unoccupied corner.

"If you get any more tweedy it's going to start to affect the reputation of the place," he complained. "Aren't those suits out of style yet?"

"I bought it from the charity shop and I rather like it," the angel said, tilting his chin stubbornly as he was guided away from the lights. "I might keep it for decades, who knows?"

"Argh," Crowley said, with feeling. "I can't even imagine the sort of – no, I don't want to talk about it. How about the place, instead. What do you think? Instincts bothering you yet?"

"You know, it's actually rather pleasant," Aziraphale said, staring around.

"Well you can't _write_ that," Crowley said, horrified.

"Of course not, my dear. I shall be suitably alarmed at the amount of openly committed crime in the place, not to mention the organization of it at all levels."

"Yes," Crowley said, with more than a hint of pride. "That's exactly what you should say. 'Same Godless heathens as always.'"

Aziraphale sputtered. "I certainly won't! You are _incorrigible_," he managed. Crowley beamed. It was exasperatingly charming.

"And just for that I might offer you some of the Chablis we were talking about." He produced a wine glass out of nowhere, filled generously with a light, golden liquid. It looked _wonderful_. The aroma drifted over to where Aziraphale stood, flawlessly tempting. He stared at it longingly.

"I… I shouldn't. I can't break the law, even a silly law like this one. I can't let temptation win out."

"Hmph," Crowley said. "You're in the presence of the master at work, you know. I bet I could tempt you straight out of that hideous woolen thing and—"

"Yes," Aziraphale interrupted, and in another moment had pinned Crowley to the wall behind him and was kissing him as if his life depended on it. Crowley squeaked, though he'd certainly never admit it later. Within a few seconds he relaxed enough to return the kiss (now it was Aziraphale's turn to squeak), and after a few seconds more the glass had vanished and he'd planted his hands on the angel's hips. Aziraphale slid his hands inside Crowley's open jacket – buttoned neatly just moments ago, but he hadn't actually noticed – and moved restless fingers on his back.

"Really shouldn't," Crowley muttered eventually as a token protest.

"Why?" the angel asked, breathless. "There's no law against it."

"Um," Crowley began, but his mind was too sluggish to move far.

"And if there is, my dear, just… don't mention it." And Aziraphale moved closer.

Wisely, Crowley didn't say another word.


End file.
